¬_¬

He tips his hat and raindrops fall off the brim like liquid diamonds. Soaking wet and somber, clouds begin to form just behind his forehead. he's dressed in an oilslick overcoat as he approaches you. Something in the way his lips form the word quiet compels you to comply. You follow as he walks, watching the street go from a polluted modernity to a cobblestone thoroughfare; he turns to you and sneers.

'Do you know what consecration is?'

You observe silently as he pulls out some tchotchke from his diaphanous coat. 'This,' he says, 'is a relic of Saint Anne of Green Gables.' You espouse the opinion that Anne of Green Gables never attained sainthood (being that she was a fictional character) before you realize he's holding what appears to be a bone of indeterminate lineage.

A slight chill frosts your neck as you begin to grasp the bed you've made for yourself.

'I,' he starts pompously, 'am the sideways Osiris of the subway tunnels, and you have committed crimes against against our people.'
What Crimes, you think as his glare turns into a grimace. 'I hereby curse you for what you've done. Every little petty crime, every ignorant slight, every misstep will be foremost in your heart and mind. You are, now and forever, execrated.'